WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

 By Phillip Starr

The legendary founder of Kyokushin karate, Masutatsu Oyama, said that for every 1,000 beginners, only 2 or 3 would make it to the grade of shodan (first grade black belt). Then he added that for every 100 shodans, only 1 or 2 would go on to the next grade. The numbers decrease further from there. Certainly, this has been my experience and I imagine that most martial arts teachers would agree wholeheartedly with him.

I remember when I first began my journey along the martial path more than six decades ago. I, as well as many others, understood that getting a black belt meant that one was truly an m”expert.” I even heard, and my father firmly believed, that to be awarded a black belt, you had to literally kill a man with your bare hands! Of course, there were the many old wives tales such as having to register your hands with the police, and so on.

Although such beliefs have now been proven false, many of us still hold on to some of their remnants. In the Occident, the color of black is foreboding, ominous, the color of death. Oddly enough, mourners in the Orient wear white. Nonetheless, there is that nasty notion, that tiny remnant of times gone by, that pushes us to believe that a “black belt” signifies that one is a martial arts “expert.” In this regard, it's well to remember that the famous American poet, Walt Whitman, defined this term as “anyone who can spit over a boxcar.”

As most of you know, the truth is far different. When a student reaches the level of shodan, it indicates that he has acquired some measure of skill with the fundamentals. He has built a solid foundation upon which he can now build real skill. That's a nice way of saying that he is now ready to learn. Prior to this level, he was not physically, mentally, or spiritually prepared for learning the real art. Now he is. He has graduated from “high school” and is ready to enter college.

To get through “high school”, however, requires an extraordinary amount of courage and grit. The training is often very painful, tedious, and requires a great deal of dedication. Few are those who will succeed in making it to the “first step”, which is roughly what “shodan” means. Unfortunately, many new shodans, thinking that they've “made it” (whatever that means), stop training. This is regrettable because they'll never learn the true art. They've built a good foundation but they'll never erect a strong building upon it.

Those few worthies who possess a strong spirit will continue their training; their thirst for knowledge will push them to move further down the path. One by one, many of them will give up until there are only a very few left. Hopefully, these courageous souls will become teachers themselves and eventually realize the value of what their teacher gave them. He not only taught them the various techniques and forms and movements; he gave each of them a piece of himself, a bit of his heart and his very soul. If they determine to teach others, they will do the same. And as the years pass, they will watch sadly as so many of the pupils bid them farewell before graduating from high school. One of my students who began teaching spoke to me of this and I told him, “It's nothing new. It's always been this way. It always will. It's simply the nature of the beast (of teaching).”

But with each new shodan comes the prospect of a bright future. He or she is excited and hopeful and even moreso his/her teacher. But the old veteran instructor will sit back and smile as he says, “We'll see. We'll see...”

THE UKE; MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE

 by Phillip Starr

In the practice of almost all of the traditional martial ways, participants often engage in prearranged forms of attack and defense. One of them assumes the role of the attacker who will “receive” the counter-attack of the “defender. This person is referred to as the “uke.” In the martial art of judo, the uke may not necessarily initiate an attack; he may simply receive his partner's technique.

Many students assume this role with a sense of passivity, lobbing unfocused kicks and punches at their partners. There is no real power, no spirit, no intent, no real technique. The uke often regards himself as little more than a human dummy; he participates in the exercise only to provide his partner with a live target. He's anxiously awaiting his turn; when he and his partner switch roles. That's the fun part of the exercise, isn't it? So, he puts up with having to play the part of the uke and this mindset is a huge mistake for both of them.

The defender must learn to respond appropriately to a genuine attack rather than a sterile, lifeless technique and it is the attacker's job to assist him in doing so. The uke should do his level best to execute a sharp, properly focused technique. Certainly, the level of power that he uses should be commensurate with his partner's level of expertise. That's a fancy way of saying that one should not apply the same level of technique against a beginning student that one would apply against a more senior practitioner. But the technique should be clean and strong. If he just passively chucks his technique out there without proper focus and celerity he is doing two things, both of which will eventually have a negative impact on him and his training partner.

First, he will develop the habit of launching sloppy, half-baked techniques instead of crisp, properly spirited technique. He is either ignoring or doesn't believe in the tried and true axiom that says, “You will fight exactly as you train.” This could be a real problem should he ever need to call on his martial prowess to defend himself against an assailant who's intent on suddenly and traumatically altering his dental structure or worse. I've heard many students say, “Well, I'd perform differently if it was for real.” This statement is completely untrue. Persons who make this kind of statement have probably never been in a real fight and they have no clue what they're up against. Whether or not they believe it, they will perform exactly as they've practiced because it's become an unconscious habit!

Secondly, he is doing his partner a terrible disservice by helping him learn him to respond to weak, sloppy techniques. His partner doesn't get the kind of training that he needs and, keeping the aforementioned axiom in mind, will more than likely come up short in a real skirmish.

It's important that both participants benefit from this type of training exercise. The uke should perform to the best of his ability (again, with the issued power and speed being consistent with his partner's level of skill) and when he receives the counter-attack, he must make no attempt to block or evade it. Should he do so, he would be demonstrating a mistrust of his partner and this is regarded as extremely rude. This kind of training routine is based on a sense of trust. Both parties must strive to control their punches and kicks, so as to avoid actually striking each other. Until a student is able to effectively control his techniques and stop them just short of contact, he should not engage in two-person training exercises.

Perhaps one of the most neglected aspects of the uke's role is that of intention. That is, he must have the intention of actually attacking his partner. Of course, he will control his attack to ensure that he doesn't injure his classmate but he must mentally feel that his objective is to strike him down.

You may wonder just why is this intention thing so important. The technique is going to be the same with or without intention, isn't it? Well, on the surface it would seem so. But with continued practice, the difference becomes obvious. If you apply the principle of intention to your practice, your partner will eventually learn to “sense” the moment when you are about to attack. Such a skill is invaluable in a real encounter. However, if there is no intention, there is nothing to “sense”; there is no real attack. It's essential that when practicing with a partner, we always bear in mind of the maxims of judo; “Mutual welfare and benefit.” And by ensuring that your training partner derives benefit from your practice with him, you will do the same for yourself.

TRADITION AND DISCOVERY

 by Phillip Starr

Consider the most notable names of the traditional martial artists of times past and how long they actually trained under their teachers. You'll find that many of them spent only a few years at the feet of of their venerable instructors. How did they learn so much after training with them for only a few years? Is such a thing possible?

I'll bet a month's wages that many of you will answer with something like, “Well, they must have had a special talent for learning martial arts. This is how they were able to assimilate so much knowledge and skill in such a short time.” And for the most part, you're wrong. Sure, a handful of them may have had natural ability and they may have been able to learn physical movements much faster than the average student. But many of them expressed a deep spiritual understanding of their respective disciplines and this isn't something that can be handed down from teacher to student in a short time. So, after training with their teachers for such a limited time, how did they do it?

Quite simply, they took the initiative; they didn't wait for, nor did they expect, the teacher to “spoon feed” them, as it were. Rather, they realized that they had to learn how to learn. And you must do the same. This will require some considerable effort on your part but it is essential if you are to continue to progress.

After all, there will come a day when you and your teacher part company. This may be due to one or both of you moving away or perhaps your teacher will shuffle off this mortal coil. Maybe he will finally tell you, “I have no new forms to teach you, no more techniques. Now you must learn how to learn.” And you are left to stand on your own. At this point, some students begin to make changes; they change the forms they've struggled to learn. Some students feel that they aren't all that important and they eliminate some or perhaps all of them. They alter techniques. They feel that they've become “adults” in the martial arts world and they can do as they please. I was certainly guilty of this in my younger years.

But life and time are persistent, unmerciful teachers; sometimes subtle and sometimes more than a little forthright. To those who pay attention, they beget wisdom. Eventually, the student begins to more fully understand what his teacher taught him...and much of what he taught was not readily apparent. Even now, at my advanced age, I occasionally stumble across a nugget of information tucked away in a movement of one of my forms or perhaps in a single technique and I realize that my teacher had alluded to this inconspicuous but profound principle many years ago! And finding that single piece of information often paves the way to further discoveries! When this began to happen to me, I realized that this is how we learn; this is how our teachers continue to teach us long after we have parted company.

TIMELY MOVEMENT

 by Phillip Starr

The swordsmen of feudal Japan practiced their art with the utmost intensity. In battle, success or failure was usually decided in a split second. There were rarely any second-place winners. A single blow would decide the outcome of the conflict. If their technique failed, the result was certain; they wouldn't be joining their families to enjoy a second helping of Mom's rice pudding. If the technique was successful, they'd live to fight another day.

A tiger approaches its prey very carefully. Every movement is calculated and precise. The movements are small, some are almost imperceptible as the tiger focuses on what it is about to do. If it fails to bring down its quarry, it may not get another chance to eat for a couple of days or more!

Both the swordsman and the tiger appear to be relaxed. There's no fidgeting around, no bouncing up and down. They are what we call “centered.” Can you imagine what would happen if the swordsman started bouncing round, or began jiggling his sword? I can. It would be a very, very short fight.

When many of the martial disciplines became “sportified”, we began to see a lot of twiddling, jiggling, and wiggling coming into play. The duel was no longer a matter of survival; it was (and still is) simply a question of who wins the game this time. The operative phrase in that last sentence is, “this time.” When one contestant loses, he can always try it again at the next tournament. However, this was not the case for the feudal warrior. If he lost, he lost it all.

In the traditional martial forms of China, Okinawa, and Japan, movement is never performed for its own sake. That is, you don't move just to be moving. Each and every movement, even small shifts of the feet, are done for a reason. Energy is conserved and the trained fighter represents the very essence of economy. The breath is controlled and calm, movements are never wasted.

If the enemy should attack suddenly, the fighter must be able to respond in an instant. This doesn't necessarily mean that he simply avoids the incoming blow(s); he must be able to respond and take advantage of this”window of opportunity.” He knows that within every movement, no matter how slight, there is a moment of vulnerability. If the movement is small, the “window” is likewise small. However, if the “window” is large enough and he is in precisely the right place at exactly the right moment, he can slip through it and bring his opponent down. Naturally, if he is hopping around like a rabbit on steroids or busily fidgeting about like a young man on his first date, he will be unable to breach the “window” and any attempt to do so would probably end in disaster.

I can see the young man in the back waving his hand excitedly. Is there a fire? Oh, you have a question...okay, fire away. You say that boxers stay on the balls of their feet and bounce and weave to confuse the opponent? And you say that they believe that a moving target is harder to hit? Well, let's have a look at your query... I'll start with a question of my own. What is the purpose of a boxing match? What is each contestant trying to do?

You say that they're trying to knock out the opponent? Well, that's only partially true. You see, the objective is not necessarily to render the opponent unconscious; the objective is TO WIN! And you don't necessarily need to knock anyone out in order to win the bout, right? Right. That's because boxing is a GAME. There's a winner and a loser. At the end of the match, both competitors shake hands and go home to nurse their bruises. However, real combat is not a game. It's about “not losing.” It's about survival. In a life-and-death struggle there can be only one survivor (and sometimes, there are no survivors). There are no rules, no “points”, no referees, and no rounds. It ends when one of the participants dies.

Now, let's address the idea of bouncing around so as to confuse the opponent and to present him with a target that is difficult to hit. A trained fighter won't be at all confused by his enemy's movements. He remains focused on his intended target without any expectations. Secondly, a moving target is not at all difficult to hit. Remember what I said about each movement presenting a “window of opportunity?” A fighter who prances around is presenting his foe with numerous “windows” and sooner or later, the enemy will find one that's well within his timing and the fight will end abruptly.

Yes, I'm aware that there have been contests pitting boxers and even wrestlers against practitioners of various martial disciplines and the boxers or wrestlers frequently win. These have all been fool's games, with “games” being the key word. No one was ever killed. The rules were fairly stringent so as to avoid serious injuries. However, traditional martial arts were never intended to be practiced as games. I wonder what the outcome would have been if no protective gear was worn – no gloves or footpads, no groin cups, no mouthpieces. And what if there had been no rules whatsoever? Combatants would be allowed to use any and all techniques at their disposal, including kicks to the legs, seizing techniques, biting, and whatever else came to mind. And what if there were no rounds? The fighters couldn't rest until the fight was finished. And what if the fight would end only when one of the combatants was killed? It would certainly make for a completely different approach to the match, don't you think?

In real martial arts, nothing is wasted. The feudal swordsman appears to be relaxed and calm as he faces his enemy. His movements are slight and made only when necessary. His mind is focused. When the window slides open he'll dart through in an instant and maybe, just maybe, he'll go home when it's over.

TECHNIQUE AND THE WAY

             By Phillip Starr

     It occurs to me that many martial arts schools nowadays don't really teach a martial art, per se. Rather, they emphasize the development of martial technique as the be-all, end-all of a student's training. Certainly, learning and practicing technique is important but I believe that a true martial art must go beyond mere physical skill.

     The Eastern martial arts are different from most other combative disciplines because they place high importance on the development of the practitioner's character as well as his physical technique. In the West we're not accustomed to thinking of, or practicing any particular art with this idea in mind. It's all about technique, about getting from Point A to Point B as efficiently as possible. We rarely consider looking at everything that happens in the process of getting from A to B and how those things impact our character.

     I know; it sounds pretty abstract. Let's put it into perspective by looking at one particular Oriental art; chado. The word "cha" refers to tea (in both Chinese and Japanese) and the word "do" (or 'dao" in Chinese) refers to a "way, a path..." So "chado" means, "The Way of Tea." And it involves much more than simply boiling a nice pot of tea. Much. More.

     The process begins long before the tea is even made. The chado practitioner (chadoka) must take time to center himself and prepare his mind and spirit for the task at hand. If the event is to be conducted in a traditional Japanese tea house, the path leading to the door must be ceremonially cleaned before anything else is done.

     All of the utensils that will be used in the making and serving of the tea must be scrupulously cleaned and all in accordance with certain "rules of technique and conduct." The tea must be prepared in a very specific way and it is served and experienced (I hesitate to use the word "taste", as that simply doesn't get the idea across...), and so on. The whole event can be likened to performing a Japanese kata (form), not unlike those that are seen in the practice of myriad martial disciplines.

     In the West we would see all of this persnickety-ness as a waste of time. After all, isn't the idea just to brew up some tea and drink it?

     No, it isn't.

     The whole process is an experience. It is disciplined, precise, and simplistically beautiful. And doing it impacts the character of the practitioner.

     When you practice a particular technique you know that it must be done just so. Perfection of any technique is a lifelong pursuit. The same is true of forms. Most people practice for a short time and then give in and give up. Some of them are happy to settle for being mediocre and they lack the intestinal fortitude to continue to push and discipline themselves.

     Learning technique isn't too difficult and almost anybody can achieve some measure of skill with it. But the true art is beyond that; it is a striving for perfection for its own sake that reveals the real art and develops the true martial arts practitioner.

THE SPACES IN BETWEEN

 by Phillip Starr

There is a saying that tell us, “The music is not in the notes, but the silence in between.” This is a very profound statement that can apply not only to music, but to martial arts as well. In your forms there are spaces between the various postures. Some are larger than others, but they're there, nonetheless. And they're not empty.

Take a close look at them, one by one; exactly where are your hands placed? Where is your weight held? The position of the hips and feet? Just what is the application of the posture you've just completed? In what position is your opponent following that application?

Many of the old masters who created our forms were real big on the concept of “implied.” Oftentimes, the primary technique or a follow-up technique is IMPLIED within the so-called “empty space” but it can be found ONLY if your hands, feet, hips, and all the rest are in exactly the proper position. If those position(s) are altered by someone who doesn't possess a complete understanding of the form, the “implied” techniques and their subsequent applications are lost.

Oftentimes, only the “entry” to the intended technique is shown. The rest is implied. Why is this? I believe the reason(s) are twofold:

*It ensured that only those who were devoted students would find them. Students who were interested only in learning how to fight quickly would never find them. Finding them isn't easy and requires a good deal of work and practice.

*It also helped “camoflouge” the real techniques of the system. People who might spy on the training would never see them and it helped keep the true art hidden from the view of unworthies.

So...are you truly a devoted practitioner? Do you consider yourself worthy enough to learn the whole art? If the answer to these questions is “yes”, then you've got some work ahead of you...

Seven Years For The Foundation

 by Phillip Starr

     Last April marked my 69th year in the martial arts. I recall looking through a copy of my first book, The Making Of A Butterfly, and thinking back to my early days of training under Master W. Chen.  I remembered something he'd said that made me wonder if I would be able to continue training in the Chinese martial arts.

     I was in the throes of a religious experience. That is, I thought I was seeing God! I was doing my best to hold the "ma" (commonly known as "ma-bu", but more correctly called "qi ma-bu", or "horse-riding stance"). My legs were on fire and shaking like a jackhammer. I could hardly keep my back straight and breathe correctly. I collapsed, of course, but I resolved to get right back up and continue the exercise. And within a few seconds my legs gave way again.

     Sifu Chen stopped me and told me about the vital importance of learning the "ma", of building a solid foundation. He told me that the first seven years of training were devoted to this end.

SEVEN YEARS???

     Yep. He said it calmly, as if it was a fact that everybody knew and accepted. I couldn't imagine continuing this kind of training for seven years! But that's what he meant and that's exactly what I ended up doing.

     Oh sure, I was taught many other things during that time. I learned all kinds of techniques and forms and two-person exercises and joint techniques and throws and...lots of stuff. But the emphasis on the ma was always there. I can't count the number of times that I listened to lectures about the importance of it.

     I figured that if it was important enough for my sifu to constantly lecture us about it, it was something I'd better practice. A lot. And I did. Eventually, I came to understand its value. This isn't something that can be completely understood just by reading or thinking about it. It has to be practiced, physically experienced over an extended period of time. That's the only way to "get it", to acquire the knowledge and ability that comes as a result of such painful practice.

     The reason I thought about it was because my editor had sent me a copy of a little blurb they were putting on the back cover of my book. It's a quote from the book about learning the "ma." I thought about how long it had been since I'd first started training and then noticed another line they'd put on the cover...that I'd been training for over 50 years (at the time the manuscript was sent in, it was only 48 1/2 years) and I was stunned. I guess time flies when you're having fun.

     But even after five decades of practice (part of which passed before I met Sifu Chen), I have to say that he was absolutely right. Without a proper foundation, learning real martial arts is impossible.

     Building a strong "ma" doesn't necessarily mean that you only practice standing in a horse-riding stance for a certain length of time each day; it also has to do with learning how to step, how to shift your weight and move, how to stand in other stances (although the "ma" is the mother of all stances), how your breathing affects your movement, how your yi (intention) affects your movement, how to maintain balance when standing still and moving...lots of things. But they all have to do with the foundation. The "ma."

     I remember back when beginning judo students were made to spend most of their practice time learning not only ukemi (breakfalls), but the basic stance (jigotai). It's kind of a second cousin to the "ma." Students practiced shifting and stepping in this position. Times have changed; I don't think most modern judoists have ever in so much as even heard of this posture.

     There's no question that the vast majority of contemporary kung-fu (and karate) practitioners have ever practiced the "ma." They may know what it is but they don't "have" it. They can intellectualize about it but they have no real foundation.

     Sometimes I hear internal stylists argue that they don't use the horse-riding stance very much, if at all. That's fine. "Ma" literally means "horse" (as well as other things), but the term "ma" when it's use in conjunction with fundamental stance(s) simply refers to the style's most basic way of standing. In xingyiquan, baguazhang, the basic stance is "sanzai" (aka. "sancai"). That's their "ma." In taijiquan - well, it depends on who you talk to...some would say they do have a horse-riding stance (it appears in the posture known as Commencement) while others use the "sanzai" stance. Whatever. The point is that they do have a single, fundamental stance.

     The problem is that most martial arts enthusiasts nowadays don't practice their "ma" anymore. In many cases their teachers don't (and probably never have), either. The teacher is sometimes afraid that if he makes students engage in such uncomfortable training, they'll quit - and that means loss of income. So they don't make students do it anymore. And now we're seeing the results - martial arts practitioners who have no real power, no real skill. No "ma."

     I remember that my sifu used to insist that if we stood in the "ma" every day, our vital energy (qi) would eventually sink down to the dantien and we would be able to express great power. I couldn't imagine how this was possible. How could standing in this painful position accomplish that?

     And he said that unless we built a solid "ma" we'd never be able to emit real power. We'd have no true strength. That confused me, too. But he was absolutely right. And after watching the development of martial arts over the last fifty years, I must say that this old time-tested training method needs to be re-emphasized.

     Practicing the "ma" has a positive impact on both physical and mental health, too. Many years ago, kung-fu teachers in China would often recommend it as a sort of therapy for a variety of ailments, especially for problems with the stomach and intestines. It was prescribed for some respiratory sicknesses, too.

It's also an excellent tool for developing a strong yi (intention) and spirit. Try standing in it for ten or fifteen minutes and you'll understand why.

     Most students loathe this kind of training. They want to jump right into the martial arts and get into the "meat" of it. They fail to see how standing in some static posture or doing boring drills like "walking the square horse" are going to help them become superior fighters.

     But they do. It just takes time. You can't hurry the process. You have to learn patience, you have to willing to endure great discomfort, and you have to develop an iron will.

     For seven years.